I always watch what I eat. Like when I stare at chocolate cake until it feels uncomfortable and then eat it as a kindness. — saaleha (@saaleha) March 28, 2013
Poets win hearts, not bread and must marry wisely to stay fed. — saaleha (@saaleha) April 11, 2013
— Favourable Flickrings
High Tea at Belle’s Patisserie in Birnam.
The Realisation of Doughnuts.
Wish these came in halaal, Argentinian steak burgers at the Market On Main.
Endless Pools. Jabu Nene Ceramics.
This is how you eat a stroopwafel; the rising steam from the hot coffee softens the wafer and activates the sweet stickiness of the sandwiched stroop.
Colour me cream and scone.
Dear Katy, I was told you are buried in the row, alongside the highway…
Woke at 3AM to the windows beating…
I seek you out…
Published in Poetry Potion 2012.04 (5th Anniversary Edition) Growing Bones First soft and unknit to mould through mothers to begin this work of hardening frame growing upwards to fall free when six from the top of the world, fracturing fear and breaking in three places casting a school-term in plaster scribbled on in fruit-scented markers. …
And you are like that one thing that’s just out of reach by a hand that can only go as far as a Facebook wall, a box of badges, a good picture on a memory stick. Each day is a day away from when you were here and when you are not.
I’ve been getting a steady stream of hits since MOO featured my MiniCard-holders in their newsletter and Inspiration gallery. I use their MiniCards to promote ShootCake, my food photography sideline. The MiniCards are really bitty and supercute in that way all diminutive things are. When they were going to be included in the goody-bags at …
A year of poems.
My grandmother says we’ve brought her here to die. Her paranoia probes under our fingernails with a splintered stick, splitting the tissue-beds, prying us apart. We give her pills for our pain. Her cataracts cloud over her unlettered bewilderment. but she can still see old blood on the ceiling of the state hospital. My mother …
Love them beyond the first fallen tooth, beyond the scrapings of their knees. Love them beyond the breaking of toys beyond the whistling crack of voices. Love them beyond the down on their chins, beyond the girls on their walls. When you can no longer carry them, This is when you must hold them. Love …
A flash-fiction piece set in Cairo
A story generated using the Black Box writing technique.
On the monitor I can see the children of my bad-days, the offspring of my ineffective living, clustering like fruit disallowing any real life to root. I have conceived a syndrome a malfunction a sabotage, a betrayal.
The fourth year of Bamjee-Mayet.
(prompted by a free-writing exercise, includes bits of things I’ve written before.) I don’t mind anymore that you died when you did. It was too much for me at 6-years-old, but now, I can take it. It is better that you went when you did. Death elevates, and you are greater for it. …
I will chase your ghosts on google, search out your face in every pixel, pocket the sparks your wit threw into the corners.